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He'll lead thee fafe, and bring thee home,
And still let bleffings fall

Of grace while here, till glory come :
Thy Husband's bound for all.

His ftore can anfwer ev'ry bill,
Thy food and raiment's bought;
Be at his will, thou'lt have thy fill,
Thy Husband wants for nought.
What can thy foul conceive it lacks?
His ftore, his power is thine;
His lib'ral heart to lib'ral acts,
Thy Husband does incline.

Though on thy hand, that has no might,
He fhould thy task enlarge;

Nor work nor warfare needs thee fright,
Thy Husband bears the charge.

Thou wouldst (if left) thyfelf undo,

So apt to fall and stray;

But he uplifts and leads thee too :
Thy Husband knows the way.

SECT. X. Comfort to Believers from the text, Thy Maker is thy Hufband, inverted thus, Thy Husband is thy Maker; and the conclufion of this fubject.

Or light and life, of grace and glore,
In Chrift thou art partaker ;

Rejoice in him for evermore,

Thy Husband is thy Maker.

He made thee, yea, made thee his bride,
Nor heeds thine ugly patch,

To what he made he'll ftill abide,
Thy Husband made the match.

He made all; yea, he made all thine,
All to thee fhall be given.

Who can thy kingdom undermine?
Thy Husband made the heav'n.

What earthly things can thee annoy?

He made the earth to be;
The waters cannot thee destroy,
Thy Husband made the fea.
Don't fear the flaming element
Thee hurt with burning ire;
Or that the fcorching heat torment :
Thy Husband made the fire.

Infectious ftreams fhall ne'er destroy
While he is pleas'd to fpare;
Thou fhalt thy vital breath enjoy,
Thy Husband made the air.

The fun that guides the golden day,
The moon that rules the night,
The ftarry frame, the milky way,
Thy Husband made for light.

The bird that wings its airy path,
The fifh that cuts the flood,
The creeping croud that fwarms beneath,
Thy Husband made for good.

The grazing herd, the beafts of prey,

The creatures great and small,
For thy behoof their tribute pay,
Thy Husband made them all.

Thine's Paul, Apollos, life, and death,
Things prefent, things to be;
And ev'ry thing that being hath,

Thy Husband made for thee.

In Tophet of the damn'd's resort
Thy foul fhall never dwell,
Nor needs from thence imagine hurt,
Thy Husband formed hell.

Satan, with inftruments of his,

May rage, yet dread no evil;

So far as he a creature is,

Thy Husband made the devil.

His black temptations may afflict,
His fiery darts annoy;

But all his works, and hellish trick,
Thy Husband will deftroy.

Let armies ftrong of earthly gods
Combine with hellish ghosts,
They live, or languish, at his nods;

Thy Husband's Lord of hofts.

What can thee hurt? whom dost thou fear ?

All things are at his call.

Thy Maker is thy Husband dear,

Thy Husband all in all.

What doft thou feek? what doft thou want?

He'll thy defires fulfil ?

He gave himself, what won't he grant ?

Thy Husband's at thy will.

The more thou doft of him defire,
The more he loves to give :
High let thy mounting arms afpire,
Thy Husband gives thee leave.

The lefs thou feek'ft, the lefs thou doft

His bounty fet on high;

But higher feekers here do most

Thy Husband glorify.

Wouldst thou have grace? Well; but 'tis meet
He should more glory gain.
Wouldst thou have Father, Son, and Spirit?

Thy Husband fays, Amen.

He'll kindly at the lib'ral God,

Devifing lib'ral things;

With royal gifts his fubjects load;
Thy Husband's King of kings.

No earthly monarchs have fuch store

As thou haft ev'n in hand; But, O how infinitely more

Thy Husband gives on band!

Thou haft indeed the better part,

The part will fail thee never :

Thy Husband's hand, thy Husband's heart, Thy Husband's all for ever.

END OF THE POEM UPON ISAIAH liv. 5.

GOSPEL SONNETS.

PART III.

THE BELIEVER'S RIDDLE.

OR, THE

MYSTERY OF FAITH.

THE PREFACE,

SHEWING THE USE AND DESIGN OF THE RIDDLE.

READER, the following enigmatic fong,

Does not to wifeft nat'ralifts belong:
Their wildom is but folly on this head :
They here may ruminate, but cannot read.

For tho' they glance the lines, the meaning chokes,
They read the words, but not the paradox.

The fubject will, howe'er the phrase be blunt,
Their most acute intelligence furmount,

If with the natʼral and acquired fight

They fhare not divine evangelic light.

Great wits may roufe their fancies, rack their brains,

And after all their labour, lofe their pains;

Their wifeft comments were but witlefs chat,
Unaot to frame an explication pat.

No unregen'rate mortal's beft engines
Can right unriddle these few rugged lines;
Nor any proper notions thereof reach,
Though fublimated to the highest stretch.

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